Jaded
by Burked
Summary: G/S Things get worse between G and S after PwF, until a crisis changes Grissom's perspective.


**Title:               Jaded**

**Author:           Burked**

**Rating:            **PG, for the same kind of language you find in the typical Disney movie nowadays.

**Disclaimer:**     I do not have the good fortune to own CSI or anything associated with it, other than the boxed set of Season One, back when the music was hipper, the science was cooler, and the characters interacted with each other on cases that mattered.  Sigh.

**Spoilers:**         Playing with Fire and a few other vague references to earlier episodes.

**Kudos:**            Many, many thanks to Jen, who unbeknownst to me fought through the flu to beta this for me.    

*********

**Chapter 1:  Are You Happy Now?**

In a sense, she realized, he had created her.  It was only fitting that he could destroy her.  

'But not anymore,' Sara told herself, bolstered by liquid courage.  She was getting tougher than that now.  He had seen to that as well.

Sara didn't normally enjoy popular music, especially the last few years.  So much of it was geared towards teenagers and dance music, and rarely spoke to her.  But there was a song that she liked for all the wrong reasons, and she had heard it a lot lately, especially in places like this.  She listened to it begin with a sense of recognition, and hoisted a beer to the singer, wherever she was.  She smiled bitterly, listening to the words:

_Now, don't just walk away,  
Pretending everything's ok,  
And you don't care about me.  
And I know there's just no use,  
When all your lies become your truths and I don't care._

_Could you look me in the eye,   
And tell me that you're happy now?  
Would you tell it to my face or have I been erased?  
Are you happy now?   
Are you happy now? _

She found herself drifting back in her mind, memories of words and images swirling in and out of focus.  She briefly faded from the reality of the bar, remembering her thinly veiled ultimatum to Grissom, 'By the time you figure it out, it will be too late.'  Her ears piqued when the singer became more strident:

_You took all there was to take,   
And left me with an empty plate.   
And you don't care about it.   
And I am giving up this game.   
I'm leaving you with all the blame, 'cause I don't care._  
  
 'God,' she thought.  'Never thought I'd see the day when a pop song would speak for me.  A sure-fire indication that you need to get a real life, Sidle.'

Thinking about it all now, Sara realized that _he_ didn't do anything to her – not really.  She did it to herself.  She mirrored him in an unrealized attempt to attract him to himself.  Narcissus would have been proud.

If he was serious, she was serious.  When he was playful, she was playful.  When he got angry, she got angry.  It was enough to keep him close, but not enough to bring him closer.

Sara unconsciously decided to turn up the amplitude to see if she could get more of his attention.  If he chose her to work with, she would work virtually non-stop, only sleeping a few hours every few days.  When he would crack a small smile of acknowledgement, she would burst into a grin.  When he would stand close, she would lean into him.  Virtually her every move was determined by him, or at least by her pursuit of him.  

Strangely, the more Sara became like him, the more he criticized her and the more distant he became.  He told her she took her cases too personally, but she never threw a fit in the DNA lab like he did, slamming around evidence and causing a scene.  She never called a suspect a "dumb prick" to his face like he had.  OK, she once got in a shoving match with Scott Shelton, but he had started it when he slapped away her hand and called her a bitch.  So what if Sara cried over a victim or two?  That hardly qualified her as an emotional basket case.  No one seemed to mind Catherine going all weepy at the drop of a hat.  

He told her that she needed diversions outside of work, but what diversions did _he_ have?  The occasional roller-coaster ride?  She preferred the movies to roller coasters.

He would occasionally go on dates with other people peripherally connected to their work.  So she did the same thing.  If it was a good enough diversion for him, it was a good enough diversion for her.  He even implied as much, though it annoyed her at the time.  

Sara tried to objectively analyze where she had come to at this point in her life.  She was now a female version of Grissom in many ways, though almost fifteen years behind him on the curve, maybe less considering the extra effort she had put into it.  Few friends – almost none from outside of work.  No romance – or at least not the kind that lasts.  Completely devoted to her work.  Often appearing anti-social, yet very gentle, caring and emotional on the inside, for the few who could reach that area.  Controlled and controlling.  

Sara pondered whether Grissom is aware that he is rejecting himself when he rejects her.  He has made his life empty, and now hers is as well.  He hates himself in many ways, so he hates the part of himself he sees in her, too.

He helped create the Sara who exists now, whether he meant to or not.  'Maybe he's not being cruel now,' she thought, 'but being compassionate,' as he joins in helping her destroy this Sara.  Maybe he wants to protect her from his powerful influence and her eager willingness to morph into him.  Maybe he's forcing her to fight to regain her true self.  Maybe he did love her after all, in a weird alternate universe sort of way.  'Yeah, you wish,' she told herself, finishing off her last beer for this morning.  

'Gotta love Vegas,' she chuckled.  'How many other places can you drown your sorrows at eight in the morning?'

Chapter 2:  Rescue Me 

"OK, who are you, and what have you done with Grissom?" Greg asked, furrowing his dark brows under blonde-tipped bangs.  Greg didn't take his eyes off of him, watching him morph into 'that' look – the 'what the hell are you talking about?' look that Grissom gives him almost every time they interact.  His eyes squinted, his brow furrowed, his lips pursed, and that muscle in his jaw started tensing and relaxing ... tensing and relaxing.

"Never mind.  You _are_ Grissom.  My bad."

"Do you want to go with me, or not, Greg?" Grissom barked out at him.

"Yeah, sure.  I'm just a little surprised, that's all."  Greg started hurriedly putting away the samples he was working on.  As he thought more about getting to actually leave the building on CSI time, he became increasingly excited, looking for all the world like a hyperactive child who washed down a candy bar with a soda.

In the past, this behavior would have annoyed Grissom, but for some reason he was enjoying it now, though he would never let Greg know that.  After the better part of three decades of doing this work, it gave him a nostalgic feeling to see someone excited about it, seeing it all again through Greg's young eyes.

'This must be what parents feel like when they have children, in a way,' Grissom thought to himself.  'Seeing the world as exciting again, exploring all the mysteries with someone who isn't jaded yet.  All my CSIs have been here for years, and the thrill has worn off for them.'

"OK, Grissom, I'm all ready," Greg nodded, head bouncing like one of those plastic dogs with its head on a spring.  Grissom could tell that Greg was having a hard time just keeping himself contained within his skin.

"Not quite.  I am _not_ going out in public with you looking like that.  Don't you have any normal clothes?" Grissom asked, voice tinged with irritation.

"I, uh, well, not here," Greg answered, crestfallen.

"Go see if anyone has any extra clothes here you can wear.  And find a cap," Grissom added.  "I'll get the equipment ready and meet you outside in the parking lot."

"All of you are bigger than I am.  Well, except for Sara.  I'll do a lot to be able to go with you, but wearing one of Sara's shirts?  I don't know.  Oh, come to think of it, that might be kind of kinky!  Wonder if she has anything silky?" he purred, running his hands down his body.

"Greg!"

"Sorry, Grissom."

"Find some coveralls.  There should be plenty of them in the locker room, and I know for a fact they come in all sizes, because I signed the purchase order."

"Oh.  Yeah!  I can do that!" Greg could see himself in a set of blue coveralls, "FORENSICS" stenciled in white on the back, wearing a CSI cap.  'Too cool!' he told himself, clenching his fists in the air in excitement.

Grissom walked away before he could give away to Greg that his apparent annoyance was only a façade for his growing amusement.  Grissom didn't need a partner to play good cop/bad cop with Greg.  

Greg began to tear down the hall towards the locker room at break-neck speed, not wanting to make Grissom wait one more second than he had to, afraid that he would get impatient and leave without him.

"Greg!  Don't run!" Grissom shouted at him, as though he were four instead of twenty-seven.  Greg braked immediately and looked over his shoulder sheepishly.  Mindful to always have one foot on the floor, he powerwalked as fast as his legs could carry him the rest of the way.

'My, God!' Grissom shook his head.  'What am I getting myself into?  I've never been able to tolerate Greg for more than a few minutes at a time, and now I'm taking him to a crime scene.  I've obviously lost my mind!'  But the thought still brought a small smile to his lips.  It wasn't the crime of the century, and it was a slow night, like many nights lately.  If nothing else, this should liven things up a bit.

In the car, Grissom talked to Greg, letting him know what to expect, trying to get him to calm down before he imploded.  "Greg, for today, I just want you to observe mostly.  You can help by taking notes, if I need it.  Depending on how it looks, I may have you draw a sketch of the layout of the scene.  We'll see.  **_But ... do ... not ... touch ... anything_**.  Do you understand?"

"Touch nothing.  Got it."  Greg was rubbing his hands together in nervous anticipation and bounced his legs up and down.

"And stay with me.  Don't go wandering around.  You might compromise some evidence, or worse."

"Worse?"  His hyperkinetic movements stopped.

"It's the real world, Greg.  With real criminals.  And bad neighborhoods.  That's why we carry weapons and radios, which you will notice you don't.  Just stay with me and you'll be fine."  Grissom smile reassuringly, but did not want to downplay the gravity of the situation.  

Greg swallowed apprehensively, but the soon the slight tinge of danger began to meld with his excitement over being let out of his glass cage, and his incessant wiggling began to re-emerge.  He had been wanting Grissom to let him train to be a CSI for a while now, but the explosion in the DNA lab brought it to a head for him.  He felt trapped whenever he was in the lab, and he wasn't sure his nerves could take it much longer.  As he thought about this, he absently looked down at his hands and noticed that they weren't shaking now.

Out of the corner of Grissom's eye, he saw Greg examining his outstretched hands.  He quickly glanced over to see that they were as steady as a rock.  He shot a smile to Greg and turned back to the road.  

'OK, that settles it,' Grissom promised himself.  

Chapter 3:  The One That Got Away 

"Where's Grissom?" Sara asked Nick when she walked into the break room, snagging Nick's apple and taking a big bite before handing it back.

"He took Greg to a burglary in Henderson," Nick answered, rolling his eyes.  "Our little CSI-wannabe."

"His new protégé, you think?"

"Jealous?"

"I would be if Greg were stealing valuable mentor time away from me, but Grissom hasn't taught me anything in probably a year.  I guess I didn't meet his lofty expectations."

"Bitter?  Oooooo, I like that in a woman!" Nick laughed, tossing her a juice from the fridge.

"Warrick lasted a little longer, but not much," she added, not wanting it to sound personal.

"Maybe he just trades you guys in for a newer model whenever you quit worshipping the ground he walks on," Nick jabbed her.

"By my calculations, he's got a good two-year run ahead with Greg.  More, if he jerks him around less."

"Maybe not.  Greg doesn't trust Grissom the same way you did."

"The operative word there is 'did'," she shot back.

"Awww.  Did Grissom piss in your Wheaties again?" Nick asked.

"Same old, same old."

"Why do you put up with it, Sara?  You're not some pushover.  Would you let anyone else treat you this way?"

"Only if I planned to kill them and was saving up motive," she smiled.  "Dear Rage Diary,  Today, Grissom wouldn't even speak to me ... again.  Sixteenth day in a row."

"What did you do to piss him off?"

Sara leaned forward and lowered her voice, looking around the room to ensure she could not be overheard by the nonexistent audience.  "I have to admit it was pretty awful, Nicky.  I've never done such a horrible, evil thing before in my life, I swear.  I must have been possessed by Satan himself at the time.  I deserve this treatment.  Really, I do.  I was a bad, bad girl, and I should be punished," Sara answered in the most facetious voice she could muster.

"Tell Brother Nicky all about it. ... 'Cause I want to make damn sure I never do it!"

"Not likely, unless there's something you want to tell me about a new-found sexual orientation."

"_Huh?_" Nick asked, in complete confusion.  

"I asked him if he wanted to go out for dinner."

"Yeah?  So?"

"That was the evil thing.  Can't you see it?  It was absolutely diabolical."

"Dinner?  We all go out to eat with each other all the time.  He's gone with us before.  I don't get it."

"Well, I was referring to something a little more private than a group meal," she clarified.

"Ah ha!  I'm slow, but catching up."

Nick cocked his head a bit to the side and put on his 'serious face', looking steadily into Sara's eyes until her discomfort drove her to look away.  "Why do you do this to yourself, Sara?  Is he really worth it?"

"Seemed so at the time, Nicky," she sighed.  "But now? ..." she shook her head 'no'.

"Good.  Forget about him that way, Sara.  If he was worth having, someone would have snagged him a long time ago.  I think you just got admiration all mixed up with the challenge of such an enigmatic person."

Sara nodded her agreement.  "Maybe you're right."

"Hell, yeah.  There are lots of _nice_ guys around here who would love to take you out."

"I don't think so, Nicky.  I think I need some alone time to sort myself out."

"Well, any time you don't feel like being alone, you know that Warrick and I will always be there for you, right?"

"Thanks, Nicky," she smiled, laying her hand on his forearm.

"You haven't been happy in a long time, Sara.  We care about you, and we want you to be happy."

"I used to be happy ..." she mumbled, drifting off for a moment.  Snapping back, she said, "Don't feel bad about being slow to catch on!  At least it didn't take you a year ... or two ... or three," she told Nick.

'You know, someone ought to strangle Grissom for this,' Nicky angrily considered.  'And if he's not careful, she might just volunteer for the job.  At this point, I wouldn't raise a hand to stop her.'

Changing the subject suddenly, Sara sat up and asked, "What's been going on these past few days?  Is it _Death Takes a Holiday_, or something?  Are all the criminals on sabbatical?"

"I'd kill for an assignment," Nick agreed.

"You may have to.  I have an idea.  Let's take turns.  I'll commit a crime that you can investigate, then you commit a crime for me to investigate.  We'll just keep going back and forth until this wave of good citizenship passes."

"You are insane, Sara Sidle!"

"No work of any significance for three or four days will do that to any CSI worth their salt."

"We could help Greg out in the lab while he's gone."

"We're not DNA experts."

"Hell, the machines do most of the work, Sara!  Besides, we know how to do most the chemical analysis he does.  Put it in the GC Mass Spec and press 'Start'."

"First of all, that's almost as boring as doing nothing.  Second, I'm not going to cover for him while he actually gets to go to a crime scene – with Grissom, no less – while we sit here on our dead butts."

"We could kill some time looking at the evidence for a cold case." Nick suggested.

"Grissom would be pissed if we went back over his work without his permission."

"We could look at some of Ecklie's," he proffered. 

"Should be plenty to choose from," Sara quipped.  "But we'd get in even more trouble.  Ecklie would rip Grissom a new one and he'd pass down the favor to us."

"Where's your Noriega?" Nick asked, reminding her of the day he went around behind Grissom on a case, and managed to find a clue Grissom had missed.

"I need this job, Nick.  At least until I get another one.  Grissom stays pissed at me as it is and I don't want to push him over the edge," she answered.  "But, hey, I'm game up to a point.  I'll just call Grissom and ask his permission."

"You don't have the stones!"

"Watch me."  Sara pulled her cell phone out of its holster and pressed speed dial #1.

"Grissom."

"Hello, Grissom.  It's Sara."

"Yes?"

"Nick and I still don't have any assignments.  We were wondering if we could review a cold case."

"Which one?"

"Doesn't matter.  Dealer's choice."

"Just pick one off of the fish cork board in my office.  You might want to find one with a fair amount of evidence.  Maybe we overlooked something that will pop out to you guys since you have time to focus and are looking with fresh eyes."

"OK.  Will do.  Thanks, Grissom," Sara said, utterly confounded by the conversation.

"What did he say?"

"He said just pick one."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah.  Bizarre.  Maybe mentoring Greg has put him in a good mood.  If so, I take back everything I said."

Chapter 4:  The Rookie 

Walking up to the door to the convenience store that had earlier been robbed of a paltry $327.00, Grissom looked back at Greg and told him to put on some gloves.  Seeing Greg's confused face and remembering that he had told Greg to not touch anything, Grissom added, "It's just a good habit to get into, Greg.  Always put your gloves on right away so that you'll be ready.  Also, just in case you forget and accidentally touch anything, you won't leave your prints.  It's hard to convince a jury that you are competent if you have to exclude your own prints."

"Oh, sure.  That makes sense," he agreed, pulling on the gloves Grissom offered him.

Greg followed Grissom into the store and noticed that Grissom immediately began to scan the entire store before moving very far in.  

"What are you looking for?" Greg asked.

"Nothing in particular.  I'm just familiarizing myself with the scene.  And I'm also looking for anything that stands out as unusual."  He continued to look around, then asked, "So, Greg, see anything out of the ordinary?"

Greg tried to examine every square inch that was visible, trying to follow a grid pattern  so his eyes wouldn't wander and miss something.  Nothing strange on the few visible aisles.  Rows of coolers holding water, soft drinks and beer against the walls.  A small concession area with shriveled hot dogs and corn dogs.  The check-out counter, piled with small displays holding everything from vitamins to chewing gum, with a small drying puddle of blood.

'Maybe I'm trying too hard,' Greg told himself.  He relaxed as much as he could and just let his eyes wander over the store, front to back, back to front.  "Other than the blood on the counter, the only thing I see that doesn't seem to be in place is the six-pack of beer on the counter.  It's got condensation on it, so it was recently in the cooler."  Greg's eyes shot back to the coolers and he noticed that one was just barely open.  "And a cooler is still open a little bit.  But I don't see anything else.  What am I missing?" Greg asked nervously.

"Probably nothing.  That's all I see, too, Greg.  Very good."

Greg had to suppress the urge to pump his hand and shout "YES!"  

"Don't touch the counter, the beer or the cooler, Greg."

Once they moved in, Grissom started examining the counter a little closer and took out a swab to collect some of the blood.  The police officer nodded his greetings to Grissom and Greg.  

"The owner's name is Adel Melakhma, a Jordanian, as he identified himself.  He was robbed at 11:13 tonight by a lone individual armed with a handgun, who struck him in the head with his weapon when Mr. Melakhma took too long to open the cash register.  The paramedics took him to Desert Palms for stitches and overnight observation."

"Thank you, Officer Stewart," Grissom mumbled, slipping the swab into a box and marking it with the case number and his initials.

Handing Greg the 35-mm camera, Grissom began instructing him.  "Greg, when we take crime scene photos we normally take three kinds of shots, each one at three exposures, which is called bracketing.  We take locator shots that are a wider angle so that it is apparent where in the scene the evidence is.  We take one-to-ones that are intended to get a more realistic view of the evidence.  Then we take close-ups to get as much detail as possible on a small area.  The case identifier card showing the case number and the investigator's initials, plus an evidence number, needs to be visible in each shot.  At scenes with lots of pictures, it would be impossible to keep them all straight unless they are numbered and logged."

"On each one, you let the exposure meter help you find the best exposure, and take a shot.  Then drop it one notch and shoot.  Then go back up two notches – that's one over the original – and take a shot.  That way you can be fairly certain of getting the right amount of exposure with one of them."

"It's the same as me running more than one batch on the same sample."

"Right.  Leaves less room for error.  Here's the camera.  Turn on the flash here.  When this light turns green, it's ready to go.  You're going to take the pictures tonight."

"No problem.  I have a 35-mm camera, so I'm already familiar with them," Greg said confidently.  He turned on the flash and when it was powered up he looked through the viewfinder at the bloodstain.  Grissom stood by, arms crossed, watching wordlessly.  

"Oh, wait a minute, Grissom.  Where's that case identifier card thingy?"

Grissom smiled and opened his kit, removing a yellow piece of plastic, folded at an angle like a tent.  It had a large "1" on it and a place to write the case number and initials in dry erase marker.  He looked on the slip he pulled from his pocket and copied the case number down onto the plastic and initialed it "GG".  "I'm putting my initials on it because I am doing the collection and I will testify in court, should it ever come to that."

"Makes sense.  OK, are we ready now?" Greg asked, looking expectantly at Grissom, who nodded in assent.

While Greg was busy framing and composing each shot as though it would be hanging at an art exhibition, Grissom ambled over to the cop, who was at least somewhat entertained watching the rookie.  "If you want to stay, that's fine.  If you want to go ahead and go, I'll call it in when we're done so that someone can lock it down.  Up to you.  At this rate, we may be here awhile," he told the officer in a low voice.

"I'll hang around for a little while.  Not much has been going on lately, and it's always fun to watch rookies.  If I get a call though, you're on your own."  The officer radioed dispatch to notify them that he was available.

Snapping nine photographs, Greg looked back up at Grissom expectantly.  "Now what?"

"We could dust for prints.  Where would you imagine we would find some around here?"

"Grissom, there must be thousands of fingerprints in a place with this kind of foot traffic!" Greg squeaked.  "They will be everywhere, on everything."

"True.  How can we narrow it down then?" Grissom asked him.

"It would help if we knew what he is likely to have touched."

"Yes, it would."

Looking around, something caught Greg's eye.  He looked up to see a camera with a flashing red light on the front.  He looked at Grissom and said, "We could look at the video to see what he touched.  Maybe even get a shot of his face."

"Sometimes these places use fake cameras as a deterrent.  Stay here.  Don't touch anything," Grissom warned sternly as he walked around the counter.  Seeing a stool for the cashier to sit on, Grissom climbed up to the camera to see if it was a dummy or was live.  "So far, so good.  It's a real camera, and the blinking light means it's powered on.  Let's hope there's a videotape going."  Grissom followed the cords down the wall to the floor and followed them into the closet-sized office in the back of the store.  "Greg, my boy, we are in luck."  Grissom came back into the room carrying a videotape.  Greg logged it in as evidence #2 and put it in an envelope.  Grissom told him to mark the outside of the envelope as before and seal it.  

Greg couldn't believe Grissom was letting him do so much.  It was all simple work, really, and probably boring as hell to the veteran CSIs, but to Greg it was all new and exciting.  Grissom was actually trusting him to handle evidence.  But more important, Grissom was letting him say what he was thinking without giving him _that_ look.

"We have plenty of time to take this back and look at it before we release this scene.  The owner won't be back until tomorrow morning, at the earliest.  Let's pack everything and let Officer Stewart lock it up."

Chapter 5:  Feet of Clay 

Nick and Sara were in the A/V lab scrutinizing digitized versions of the crime scene photos from the cold case they had chosen, the Sanderson murder.  There were one-hundred twenty seven photos of the victim, Lila Sanderson, and the room she was found in.  Almost half were shots of blood spatter on the furniture and the walls of the living room.  

"Trying to remember how to work this freaking calculator is harder than remembering how to calculate the angles," Sara complained, staring at the unfamiliar and uncooperative machine.  "How do I make it find the inverse sine of the dimension ratio?" she finally asked in frustration.

"On that one you put in the width, press the divide key, length, and then equal key to get the ratio.  Then press the second function key, the inverse sine key, second function key, equal key, then equal key again.  Voila!" Nick boasted.

"Show off!" Sara retorted.

Sara measured the dimensions of the blood drops and punched in numbers on the now-tamed calculator, calling out angles to Nick.  He checked the figures in the report, verifying what was there against Sara's calculations.  So far, all were right on the money.

"No surprise," Sara said.  "Catherine always was good at mapping blood patterns."

"Um hum," Nick agreed absently.

The room was quiet and dark, and the lull in activity had damped the entire lab, it seemed.  Archie was on his lunch break.  Sara and Nick were startled as the silence was suddenly broken when the whirlwind that is Greg Sanders came spinning into the room, followed shortly by a more taciturn, but amazingly still patient, Gil Grissom.

"Hey, Nick.  Heyyyyyyy, Saaarrrraaaa," Greg drew out, batting his eyelids at her when she turned around.

Nick nodded, going back to looking at a screen showing the position of the body.

"Hey, Greggo.  Don't you look sharp in your official CSI coveralls!"  Greg twirled around to show her the FORENSICS on the back and pointed at it with both hands over his shoulders.  "How was your maiden voyage?"  Sara smiled broadly at him, showing two rows of pearls, punctuated by the gap between her front teeth.  It was a smile she used to reserve for Grissom only, but she doubted that he ever even noticed that he had previously had exclusive rights to it.

She was wrong, and Grissom certainly noticed that she was smiling her 'Sara smile' at another man, even if that 'man' was Greg, who he saw as little more than a boy.  He was astounded that it bothered him.  After all, he certainly didn't want it flashed at him anymore.  But then, that hadn't been a problem in several months.

"It was sweet!  We brought back the videotape of a robbery.  At least, we hope the robbery is on there," Greg added, becoming anxious.

"Even if you do see it, Greg, don't expect too much.  The quality of those recordings isn't the greatest, and it's not easy to identify a perp from a surveillance camera," Nick tried to warn him.

"I know.  Grissom already told me.  But we might be able to get some other clues, right?" he looked back at Grissom hopefully.

"Possibly," Grissom nodded.  "Pop it in, rewind it and we'll take a look."  He patted Greg's shoulder a few times and found himself a chair to pull up next to Greg's.

Sara and Nick furtively glanced in each other's eyes, without moving their heads.  The barest of eye rolls ensued.  Nodding, they silently agreed to move on to the evidence room, gathering the photo CDs and repackaging them.  Anything was better than trying to work in this saccharin atmosphere.  Suddenly, an idea hit Sara.

"Greg, it will be time for lunch break in a little while.  Do you want to go with me and Nicky?"  Nick turned towards him and smiled, raising his eyebrows to second the question.

"Uh, I'd like that.  That's OK, isn't it Grissom?  Or do I need to stay here?"

"No, Greg, there's nothing time-sensitive about this."  Grissom looked up at Nick, then over to Sara.  The lack of an invitation to join them hung in the air.

"Why don't you all go now, since you just finished what you are doing, and Greg and I haven't started yet?"

"Sounds good!" Sara chirped brightly.  She grabbed Greg by the hand and pulled him from his chair.  "Come on, Newbie!"  She didn't let go of Greg's hand until she reached the door, pulling him along as he tried to catch his balance.

"I'll drive," Nick stated flatly.

"Like hell, you will," Sara argued, as the three swung out the door into the hallway.  Grissom could hear their friendly banter's echo fade as they drew further away.  He hadn't been mentoring Greg twenty-four hours yet, and they were already co-opting him.  How long until he was one of 'them'?

"Where do you want to go, Greg?" Sara called back from the driver's seat once they had all piled into the Tahoe.

"Doesn't matter."  He didn't want to be picky.  He had taken some meals with the group in the breakroom before, but he had never been asked to go out when them like this.  He felt like he was being accepted as one of them.  

"You are in complete control, Sara darlin'," Nick drawled.  

"How very submissive of you, Nicky," she teased.  "But I always saw you as the dominant type.  I may have to rethink."

"Maybe he's a switch," Greg threw into the conversation.

"Whoa!  I'm not the resident S&M aficionado!" Nick proclaimed, holding up his palms to ward off their jibes.

"That would be Grissom, I hear," Sara growled.

"Rowrrrr!  Retract the claws, pussycat.  You'll snag the upholstery," Nick warned.

"Don't believe everything you hear, Sara," Greg added meekly, trying not allow the resuscitation of the rumors that had finally begun to lose life.

"Don't believe everything you're told, Greg," Sara shot back sharply, but then tempered her words with a conciliatory smile in the rearview mirror.

"Here, this place has good salads, and plenty of decaying animals for you boys to clog your arteries with," Sara said, pulling into the cafe's parking lot.

"Salad sounds good," Greg said, squicked out by Sara's morbid euphemism.

Nick, however, was immune to her charms.  "Sara, do you know how many plants will have to die, cut down in the prime of their lives, no less, just so you can have that salad?  One solitary cow could feed the entire restaurant, but an untold number of plants will have to be slain for you alone.  Think about it," he intoned gravely, in mock-disgust at her blatant disregard for the sanctity of all plant life.

"Screw you, Nick," she retorted, smiling sweetly as she opened her door.

As their meal arrived, Nick handed Greg's over across the table to him.  "Too bad you had to pop your cherry on a burglary, Greggo.  There's not usually very much to go on, unless the vic can pick him out of the mug shots."

"I'm just happy to get out at all.  I don't care what the case is."

"Yeah, but it would have been so much more cool if it was something meaty, like a murder."

"I'd murder him and Grissom both if he took him out on the only homicide in days while we sat back at the lab like red-headed stepchildren," Sara scoffed.

"You're the stepchild.  I'm just guilty by association," Nick countered.

"Well, here's to Grissom's new protégé," Sara said, holding up her tea glass.  They all clicked glasses, though Greg was vaguely uncomfortable.  "May you last longer in his good graces than any of us ever has," she added with a hint of sadness.

"Well, I've already spent several years as his whipping boy, so maybe I've done my penance already," Greg posited.

"Maybe so, Greg.  Maybe so.  Just don't let his sudden interest turn your head.  And don't take it personally if he goes back and forth between being attentive and ignoring you.  It's all just part of his master plan," Sara told him, leaning forward on the table.

"Don't get us wrong, Greg.  Grissom's a brilliant scientist.  Everyone knows that, even that idiot Ecklie.  And he can be a wonderful teacher, when he's in the mood.  We're just saying not to idolize him, because this idol has feet of clay.  Take all the good away with you, and let the bad roll off you," Nick cautioned gently.

"Yeah, I'm down with that.  I may be just a lab rat, but I've seen how he has been with all of us, at one time or another.  But, how come he doesn't treat Catherine like that?"

"Because she would scratch his eyes out!" Nick howled.

"You know that she's known him forever.  They are friends, and she knows not to take his game seriously.  It's just wasted on her," Sara offered with a shrug.

"Sara, what I don't understand is why he still gets to you, since you know his game," Greg asked gingerly, hoping she wouldn't take offense.

"The eternal question, Greggo.  Maybe he's just better at the game than I am."

After a brief, and somewhat uncomfortable silence, Sara let Greg off the emotional hook by prodding him between bites, "So, tell us everything.  What did you see?  Did Grissom let you do anything?"

Greg brightened as he told them every word, every thought, every deed that ensued from the time he got in the Tahoe at CSI until his triumphant return to the A/V lab.  It took up the rest of their lunch hour.  While his exuberance was initially slightly irritating to Sara and Nick both, they worked to curb their cynicism long enough to let Greg revel in reliving the moment.

Sara thought back to her rookie days – they seemed like a lifetime ago, even though it was only a dozen years or so.  Was she this insufferable?  Probably worse, she imagined.  When did it stop being so much fun?  It was still the only job she could imagine doing, and it was still interesting, but it's been a long time since it was exciting and fun.  She briefly wondered how mundane it must seem to Grissom.  All this started for him while he was still in high school, some 30 years ago.  Maybe that's why he sought people like Warrick, herself and now Greg.  Someone to make him feel the tingle again.  Guess she couldn't begrudge him that.

If she had stayed in San Francisco, she would probably be one of the more senior CSIs, and be assigned to mentor some newbies herself.  When she moved to Vegas she got on with a better lab, to be sure, but she took a step back when it came to seniority.  She had thought that with hard work she would catch back up.  It never occurred to her that Grissom would freeze her out professionally as well as personally.  

Maybe it was time to have another little talk, but this time without the coy smiles.

Chapter 6:  Penance 

"Hey, Grissom, I'm back.  Do you want to look at the videotape now?" Greg asked from the frame of the office door.

"Maybe later, Greg.  I'm in the middle of something.  Why don't you go work in your lab for a while?" Grissom told him without looking up from the file he was buried in.

Greg recognized it right away:  Sara and Nick were right.  Grissom might be mad that he went to lunch with them, or he may just be jerking him around.  Either way, it was disappointing, and Grissom's reference to 'your' lab, as though it were where he forever belonged, irked him.  But Greg took in a deep breath and thought back on the fun he had earlier and found his happy place.  He opened his eyes, spun around without a word, and returned to his glass cage.  He was not going to let Grissom or anyone else rob him of his pleasure in life.  He decided on something old and happy for the evening's entertainment, putting in a B-52s CD.  He shut the doors to the hall, and put the volume up to six, pressing the Play button.  The music filled him with life and made him happy, and if it also happened to piss off Grissom, well, bonus.

* * * * *

"I thought you and Greg would be in the A/V lab, looking at the videotape," Sara said to the top of Grissom's head, as he leaned over the papers on his desk, briefly looking up to allow Sara to read his annoyance at her interruption.

"Is there something you need, Sara?" he asked somewhat impatiently, feeling neither the need nor desire to justify himself to her.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, there is.  I need to talk with you," she answered honestly.  "May I come in?  Or would you prefer I stay here at the door?" she teased, trying to lighten the tension, if only for the moment.

"You seem to have a penchant for talking to me from the doorway."

"Is that an answer?"

"Do whichever pleases you," he sighed, closing the files and stacking them noisily.  Grissom plopped both elbows on his desk and laid his chin on his fists.

"I doubt I'll get much pleasure from either," Sara said, dropping into the chair across the desk from Grissom's glare.

"What do you need to talk to me about?" Grissom asked flatly.

"I would like for you to either trade me to another shift, or transfer me to another city."  Sara had to say it all in one breath to get it out.  

"Why?" Grissom asked, neither moving nor visibly reacting.

"Clearly, you aren't comfortable working with me, and I accept responsibility for that.  Since I am rarely, if ever, assigned to partner with you since my ... uh ...  indiscretion, I recognize that my progress will slow dramatically without a experienced mentor.  The cases I am being put on are not exactly stretching me.  As I said, I understand why I am being punished.  But maybe you would be more comfortable if I were to be out of the picture entirely."

"That is not the case.  I value your contributions."

Snorting to herself, Sara shook her head.  "I've heard that before."

"Because it's true."

"That does not negate the fact that this has become a hostile work environment, Grissom.  It really doesn't have to be, but it is."

"That is not my intention."

"Bullshit."

"Don't hold back, Sara.  Tell me what you really think," Grissom said, his stern face cracking with a half-grin.

"I'm sorry, Grissom.  I'm tired.  I'm tired of all the games and subterfuge and double entendres.  We can either just drop them and work together as professionals again, or you can get me out of here as soon as you possibly can.  Your call ... for now, anyway," she said, turning to get up, then stopping at the doorframe.  She seemed to always use it as a physical, if not emotional, support whenever she had to confront him.

"I think I've been punished long enough for the heinous crime of asking you out for dinner.  I promise I'll never do it again, if we can just go back to what we laughingly called 'normal'.  The only thing I have of value in my life in my career, and I don't want it stalled indefinitely."

Sara knew better than to expect an answer.  She also knew not to wait for any thoughtful, reassuring words.  Having gotten her request off her chest and surviving the ordeal, she was unexpectedly overtaken by a surge of courage ... her Noreiga appeared.

"I hope I'm not the only one who's learned a lesson here, Grissom.  Try not to pull this kind of crap on Greg.  You just can't keep doing this to people.  You just can't," she repeated, turning into the hallway before he could react.

Grissom didn't move, staring at the vacuum Sara had left at the door.  He was angry.  He was angry at her effrontery.  He was angry at her accusations.  He was angry that she had so little respect for his authority.  He was angry that she would imply that he purposefully hurt people.  He was angry that she wanted to leave.  He was angry that she didn't understand why he was uncomfortable around her.  He was angry that he couldn't tell her that he loves her.

He wanted to chase her down and metaphorically shove all her words back down her throat.  Instead, he picked up the phone and paged Greg to meet him in the A/V lab.

**Chapter 7:  Back in the Saddle**

"How was your time off?" Warrick asked Catherine, filling the near-empty break room with welcomed conversation.

"It was great.  How 'bout yours?" she returned.

"Good.  Good.  I hear that even without us, they didn't have enough to keep everyone busy."

"How weird is that?" Catherine shook her head.

"I hear Grissom took his new lap dog to a crime scene."

"And that would be?" Catherine drew out of him.

"Greg Sanders."

"Oh, yeah.  That figures.  Greg's been itching for this a long time.  What about Nick and Sara?"

"They are reviewing a cold case of yours and Grissom's."

She felt a small flutter of uneasiness ripple through her.  No one likes to be second-guessed.

"But, from what I hear, it didn't keep Sara busy enough to stop her from getting in Grissom's face again," Warrick shared, lowering his voice conspiratorially and leaning forward.

"What about this time?" Catherine asked.

"The usual, with a twist.  Total ultimatum:  Play nice or get rid of me."

Catherine wished she had been a fly on the wall for that little confrontation.  "I think she's starting to lose her sense of enjoyment with his mind games." 

"Ya think?"  Looking down and rocking his head back and forth, Warrick mumbled more to himself than to Catherine, "He just does _not_ get it."

"Oh, he gets it.  He just doesn't know what to do with it," Catherine shared, lowering her voice as well.

"You'd think that with all his brains he could figure out something this basic."

"Maybe he's _over_thinking it."  The rest of Catherine's reply was cut short by Sara and Nick coming into the room, already picking at each other good-naturedly.

"Yeah, sure, Nick, he's good-looking enough, but that doesn't mean I have to want to go out with him," she argued.

"Why not?  It's not like he's asking you to marry him.  It's just dinner, for God's sake."

"Well, apparently dinner constitutes a major commitment around here," she shot back sarcastically.

Realizing his verbal faux pas, Nick dropped the subject, as Catherine attempted unsuccessfully to stifle a laugh.

"Of course he would tell her about it," Sara conceded to herself.

"So, anything exciting happen while we were gone?" Catherine asked the two, trying to bridge the sudden silence.

"Define 'exciting'." Sara requested.

Catherine raised her eyebrows and shoulders simultaneously, splaying out her hands to indicate an open field.

"Greg got to go to a crime scene with Grissom," Nick filled in.

"Was he completely intolerable after that?" Catherine asked.

"Not as bad as you might think," Sara assured her.  "But at least someone had a good time."

"What have you two been doing?" Catherine asked, covering for Warrick's shared confidence.

"We killed some time looking at the Sanderson case again," Nick answered.

"Find anything we missed?" Catherine tried to ask evenly.

"All we've done is review the blood stain analysis," Sara told her.  She made sure she had Catherine's attention before she continued.  "But it was flawless, of course.  You really are good at that, Cath.  I mean it."

Touched by Sara's uncharacteristic praise, Catherine could barely squeeze out, "Thanks, Sara.  That means a lot to me."

Warrick flipped on the television, and the four fell into a peaceful hush as they watched the news for a moment.  

"Put it on Discovery Channel," Nick urged.

"I am not watching an hour-long special on the migratory habits of the common sparrow, Nick," Warrick warned.

"Oh, I haven't seen this one!" Nick exclaimed, settling down into the couch, enraptured by the dulcet tones of the narrator.

"I give up.  At least one of us should be amused," Warrick explained to the others, tossing the remote to Nick.

In a few moments, Grissom strode purposefully into the room, his new shadow not three feet behind him.

"A rancher has called in the slaughter of twelve of his cattle," Grissom began.  "The officer at the scene reports that it looks ritualistic, so we are going to check it out."

"Beats sitting here all night," Catherine jumped in.  "Who's on it?" she asked, each CSI drawing mental straws wondering who will be the lucky ones.

"Might as well be all of us.  If something else comes up, we'll split up then."  Grissom looked around, slightly amused that the whole crew seemed anxious to pounce on a case that they would have turned their noses up at only a few days ago.  

"Sara, you don't have to go, if it would make you uncomfortable," Grissom said.  Out of context, the statement left everyone a little ill at ease and confused, especially Sara, who was not sure if this was another of his double entendres.

"What do you mean, Grissom?" she countered.

"I know that you are a vegetarian, and I thought that it might bother you to have to work with a dozen dead cattle," he added in clarification.

"Thanks for remembering, but I am professional enough to be able to do my job, regardless of my personal dietary preferences," she answered with just a hint of curtness.  She realized too late that she left an opening the size of Texas for him to remind her in front of everybody that she had once made a professional issue out of having to handle meat.  After a moment of silence, she let out the breath she had been holding, a little bewildered that he had not taken the opportunity to embarrass her.

"Suit yourself," he said.  "Just wanted to give you the option."

"Thank you," she told him, hoping he understood what she was thanking him for.

* * * * *

The team milled around the area where the cattle were arranged in a circular fashion, throats and bellies slit, blood pooling into a black, concealing mass in the center of the circle.  Looking into the chest cavity of the bull nearest to him, Grissom noticed that the heart was missing, which he recounted out loud to no one in particular.  He moved from beast to beast, noting that each was without a heart.

"Greg, make a sketch of the area, indicating the arrangement of the cattle.  Then measure and note the dimensions of the circle and the spacing between the cattle on your sketch."

There were at least twice as many CSIs on this case than could be justified, and there wasn't nearly enough to keep them occupied without bumping into each other, especially considering the dearth of physical evidence other than the cattle.  But the fates had decided to smile on them.  Snapping his cell phone shut, Grissom told Catherine, Nick and Warrick to meet Brass at Bellagio's.  

"What, did someone park in a handicap zone?" Catherine asked, already tired of the paltry crimes they've had lately.

"As a matter of fact, one or more enterprising individuals has burglarized the penthouse suite, absconding with cash and jewelry," Grissom shared with them.

"Sweet!" she fired back, gathering her field kit and the two men, hustling them to the car.

"Greg and I will finish up out here, Sara.  Go back to the lab and see what you can dig up  about ritual slaughters," Grissom instructed, looking up when he did not receive a reply, only to see her receding form heading for her vehicle without so much as a word.

**Chapter 8:  Busted**

"Ooh!  My theme song!" Sara said aloud, reaching back to the radio standing next to her computer to turn it up just a little.  She hummed along with Michelle Branch while she flipped through web pages about cults, rituals and animal sacrifices.  Whenever she would find one that looked informative, she would hit the print icon and move on.  She could read it all later at home.

Soon she began quietly mouthing the words along with the artist, letting more of the sound escape her lips with each line:

_You took all there was to take, _

_And left me with an empty plate.   
And you don't care about it. _

_And I am giving up this game. _

_I'm leaving you with all the blame, 'cause I don't care._

_Could you look me in the eye? _

_And tell me that you're happy now?_

_Would you tell it to my face or have I been erased?_

_Are you happy now?_

_Are you happy now?_

Grissom was standing just outside of the door, caught in purgatory as he listened to her sing her stinging indictment of him.  Without thinking, she began to join a little more confidently into her duet with the radio, and he could now hear the pain behind every word:

_Do you have everything you want?_

_You can get up and give everything you've got._

_You can't run away from yourself._

_Could you look me in the eye,  
And tell me that you're happy now?  
Come on, tell it to my face or have I been erased?  
Are you happy now?  
Are you happy now?  
  
_

Sara began to collate the articles she had printed, squaring and stapling them mechanically, devoting more of herself to feeling the music, swaying her upper body and letting her bounce rhythmically as she sang.

_Would you look me in the eye?  
Could you look me in the eye?  
I've had that all I can take,  
And I'm about to break.  
'Cause I'm happy now.  
Are you happy now?_

When the song was fading out, she reached around to the radio and turned it back down to background noise level.  "Get over him, girl," she said towards the radio.  "He doesn't give a damn about you.  Or me."

"Have you found anything of interest?" he asked her, attempting to regain his composure, but feeling himself failing.

"Oh ... Grissom.  I didn't see you there," Sara answered, startled, almost knocking the articles off the desk and scrambling to catch them.  She felt a fire rising up her neck to her cheeks as she looked at his face and realized he had evidently been listening to her.  She wanted her brave words to him last night to be her final pronouncement on the subject, and she was burning with humiliation that he had witnessed her still dealing with the pain of his rejection.  She didn't want to give him the satisfaction.

"Uh, yeah, I found a few things that looked interesting, but I haven't had time to really dig into them.  Did you need me for something?" she asked.

'I need you for a lot of things,' Grissom's mind shot back silently, but he managed to swallow and answer, "No.  I was just checking on how you were coming along."  He turned away uncertainly, not sure whether he should say more, or whether he should have said less.  By the time Sara could see that he was several feet down the hall, and out of earshot, she asked _sotto voce, "Are you happy now, Grissom?"_

"No," he answered back to her aloud, without turning.  Weeks ago, before his stapedectomy, he would have been unable to hear her stinging question, even at half the distance.  Sara wasn't sure whether she was more stunned that he heard her, that he answered her, or that his answer was 'no'.  Recovering, she mumbled, "Join the club," not caring at this point whether he heard her or not.

**Chapter 9:  I Heard It Through the Grapevine**

Normally, end of shift wasn't obvious, just by appearances.  Some people stayed late, others came in early.  But with the lack of pressing cases lately, it was more like a shift change at a factory, with one line of people filing in at seven o'clock in the morning, passing another line filing out.  At about ten minutes to seven, Grissom was gathering up his belongings to head home.  Catherine popped her head in the door, and seeing that he wasn't in the middle of anything, walked in unbidden.  She shut the door behind her, a signal to Grissom that this was going to be one of _those_ conversations.

"Now what?" he asked edgily.

"Good morning to you, too," she spewed back.

"You never close the door unless the conversation is going to be a beating, with me as the victim."

"Just wanted to know if you've decided," Catherine asked with mock-innocence.

"Decided what?" Grissom countered impatiently.

"Decided on whether you're going to play her or trade her."

"_What?_"  
  


"Sara, Grissom.  Duh.  Are you going to make nice or are you going to get rid of her?"

"Considering that you haven't been here for days, how did you hear about it?"

"The usual.  Sara cried on Nick's shoulder.  Nick talked to Warrick.  Warrick talked to me.  I'm talking to you."

"Do none of you have anything better to do than gossip?"

"Well, no.  Not right now.  Besides, you know as well as I do that you depend on me telling you about stuff like this, so don't act all high and mighty.  It never comes all the way back around to you unless it's really important.  One of us will break the chain unless we all agree you need to know."

"I was there for the original conversation, so I hardly need the reprise."

"So, what are you going to do?"

"Nothing."

"Same as usual, huh?"

"I am not going to make her professional decisions for her.  If she wants to stay, fine.  If she wants to go, she can resign or arrange her own transfer."

"But you aren't going to make it any easier, either way."

"No easier, no harder.  Why should I?  It's not my decision to make."  He held up his hands, palms up, feigning innocence.

"I've known you a lot of years, and still you sometimes manage to surprise me," she stated with a derisive chuckle.  Standing up abruptly, fire flashed in her pale eyes as she leaned over onto his desk and told him, "I never really realized before how much of a prick you can be, when you really put your mind to it." 

"It's not your business, Catherine.  Stay out of it," Grissom warned ominously.

"You demand too high a price from those who care about you, Grissom. I can't imagine why she ever thought you were worth it," she snapped back at him, storming out of the office.

'Nor can I, Catherine. Nor can I,' Grissom agreed in his heart.

**Chapter 10:  The Handoff**

"Grissom!" Greg called excitedly down the hall.  Grissom stopped and turned to look at Greg.  "Mr. Melakhma, the convenience store owner, ID'ed a suspect from the mug shots.  Jacqui matched the prints on file for said suspect to the partial on the cooler door handle.  She said there wasn't enough on the six-pack to hold up in court, but what was there matched.  Officer Stewart is bringing him in for a line up.  If he's ID'ed and we get a search warrant, maybe they can find the gun.  It may still have Mr. Melakhma's blood or DNA on it, and we'll have him nailed!"  

"That's good, Greg.  But there are still a lot of 'ifs' before we can call it solved."

"I know, Grissom.  I can just feel that we're close, you know?" Greg smiled and bounced happily back down the hall a few feet when Grissom called to him.

"Greg!"

"Yeah?"

"Get together with Sara and see if there's anything you can do to help her on the cattle killings.  I'm making her the primary on that case.  If she says 'no', don't pester her.  Nobody likes a whiny rookie."

"I get to work with Sara?  Oh, life is good!" Greg squealed, taking back off down the hall.

'I know what you mean, pal.  I used to feel the same way,' Grissom granted. 

* * * * *

"Sara!" Greg breathlessly shouted, swinging on the doorframe with one hand, spinning himself around and landing, butt-first on her workstation.

"What up, G Dawg?" she teased him.

"Grissom said you are primary on the cattle killings now and for me to ask if I can help you.  So can I?"  Taking both of her hands up in his, be brought them close to his lips and stopped, blinking, begging, "Pretty please?  Sugar on top?"

"_I'm_ primary?  Since when?"

"Since Grissom told me about two minutes ago, I guess," Greg shrugged.

"Does he have another case, or is he just tired of us already?" she wondered aloud.

"Who cares?  _We're_ still on the case.  I'd rather work with you, anyway.  You smell better," he said, pushing his eyebrows up and down suggestively several times.

"Sure, you can help, but I doubt you're going to find it as much fun as combing a crime scene for evidence.  Not every minute is spent sleuthing, Sherlock.  A lot of our work is research and experimentation.  You may as well figure out now whether you're going to be able to stand the hours of sheer boredom."

"I can do boredom.  Just don't expect me to be boring!"

"OK, Romeo.  I've printed off these articles.  Read them.  Look for any others out on the web that give any more insight.  See if any of the groups are local.  You may want to call the PD and see if they are aware of any cults in the area.  In other words, build a profile of the killers, and start building a list of suspects."

"Doesn't sound boring to me," Greg demurred.

"Good.  Page me when you're done.  Oh, but Greg, remember, you are an unofficial trainee, and you still have a job here.  Your DNA lab is your first priority.  Understood?"

"Yeah," he glumly replied.  Grissom told him he couldn't train full time because they didn't have an opening and no budget for another CSI.  He would still have to cover his job in the DNA/Chem Lab until he could move over to investigations.  Theoretically, the training was on his own, unpaid time, but Grissom said he'd let that distinction slide as long as he stayed caught up in the lab.

Little did Greg suspect that tonight he was working for the one person who might provide him with the opening he so desperately longed for.

Sara patted him carefully on the spikes splaying from his head and headed off to locate Grissom.  She didn't know what he was up to, but she was sure as hell going to find out.

Finding him alone in the microscopy lab, she knocked on the door politely to get his attention.  He looked up at her and raised his eyebrows in a 'yes?' 

"Am I to understand, Dr. Grissom, that I am now the primary on the cattle mutilations?" she asked, as respectfully as she could muster, but cool nonetheless.

Grissom was stunned by her use of his academic title.  While it may confer respect when issued out of strangers' mouths, it seemed jarringly formal coming from her.

"Yes, Ms. Sidle, you may infer that," he returned, equally formal, equally chilly.

"As primary, I need to know who is on my team.  Are you still on the case?"

"No.  You are solo, unless you wish to allow Greg to assist you."

'What a surprise ... not!  ' Sara thought.  'This has always been his way of showing when he's really, really pissed at me.'

"I've instructed him to attend to his duties in DNA first and foremost.  He can do some research for me on his computer there, during his downtime," Sara stated for the record.

"Very well.  Do you think you will need anyone else to assist you?"

"I doubt it.  I will let you know if it becomes too complex for me," she said with a hint of acid dripping from the word 'complex.'  "Oh, by the way, am I supposed to only let Greg do things he already knows how to do, or am I also to instruct him?"

"Do you feel comfortable instructing him?"

"There are one or two things that I know well enough to teach an rank beginner," she answered coolly.

"Do what is appropriate at the time," he answered, his face and meaning inscrutable to her.

'Gauging what is _appropriate at the time_ is obviously not my strong suit,' she quipped to herself, after noting the multiplicity of possible nuances to his statement.  She wondered if it was just her imagination, or did he always talk on several levels at once?  At least it seemed that way whenever he spoke to her.

"I will do the best I can," she finally replied a little uncertainly, her body language indicating that she was speaking as metaphorically as she assumed he was.

"I have every confidence in you," he stated, turning back to his work.  "That's why I put Greg with you."

"Thank you, Dr. Grissom.  I will try not to disappoint you," she spoke stiffly, then nodded her goodbyes to the back of his head and left.  

She began to consider what she would do next on the case, since Greg had taken over the background research.  Though Grissom had said that they were all missing their hearts, she wanted to have a necropsy done on at least one of them.  'Damn!' she chided herself.  'I'll have to go back to Grissom and get permission to call in a large-animal vet.'  She hurried on to her workstation and began filling out a requisition, all the while humming as many of burnt chick songs as she could remember, screwing up her courage for the return to the lion's den.

No longer in the microscopy lab, she finally caught up with him back in his office.  Holding the paper in front of her to visibly demonstrate her official purpose for disturbing him yet again, she knocked on the door.  "Would you approve this request for a necropsy on one of the cows?"  She handed him the form, drew a breath, and opened her mouth to begin her justification.  Grissom held up a hand to silence her, and signed the form, handing it back.  "I trust your judgment," he explained simply.

'Since when?' she asked herself, becoming more befuddled with each interaction.  Gathering her senses, she cleared her throat and thanked him, shaking her head to herself on the way out.  He always knew how to keep her unbalanced, unsure of her footing.

Chapter 11:  What's Your Pulse Now? 

Watching her recede, Grissom rubbed his forehead, surprised at the sudden onset of a splitting headache.  It didn't feel quite the same as a migraine, but it seemed to hurt just as bad, if not worse.  He took some aspirin to try to hold him until he could get home.  He pressed his eyes into the palms of his hands and rested his elbows on the desk.  He could hear the blood rushing through his ears it seemed, and could hear, or maybe it was feel, his heart pumping.  It seemed a little faster than normal, but pain often does that.

Catherine walked into his office to find him leaning back in his chair, with a cool, wet cloth across his eyes.

"Migraine?"

"I guess.  Seems different, though," he answered, slowly returning to upright, taking the rag from his eyes.  Even the minimal lighting in his office made him squint, as he tried to adjust to it.  He looked up a Catherine, noticing she was slightly out of focus.  "I'm not in the mood for another ass-chewing."

"Maybe you should go home.  I'll drive you," she told him, her voice softening with concern.

"Let's wait a few minutes and see if the aspirin helps," he answered back.  

"Just wanted to catch you up on our case.  Nothing showed up on the surveillance camera, so it looks like it's an old-fashioned cat burglary, coming in from the roof, probably through an unlocked balcony door.  Egress the same way.  No prints, no mistakes."

"How'd he get to the roof?" Grissom asked weakly.

"PD's checking everyone with access.  Hey, you don't look good.  I think we better get you home so you can take your medication and sleep this off."

Nodding his agreement, Grissom stood and collapsed.

Chapter 12:  It All Comes Tumbling Down 

"Grissom!  Grissom!"  Catherine was leaning over him, grasping the sides of his face with her hands.  "Griss!  Hang on.  Help is on the way!"  Catherine jerked her head up and around, meeting Warrick's concerned stare.  "Where are they, Warrick?  Why aren't they here yet?"

"They're coming, Catherine.  I called 911 myself.  They should be here any minute."  Warrick shoved his hands in his pockets and frowned, unable to think of anything else to do to help.

The two paramedics burst through the lab doors, pushing a gurney stacked with their gear, ordering everyone to move back while they examined Grissom.  

"What happened?" one barked.

"We were just discussing a case," answered Catherine, "when he suddenly turned pale and collapsed.  He was complaining about a bad headache earlier."

They simultaneously opened up their kits as Catherine talked, and began taking vital signs to relay to the ER doctor.  "We have a white male, approximately 50 years old.  Subject is nonresponsive.  Pulse is 100.  BP is 160 over 120.  Right pupil is responsive, left is nonresponsive."  

"BP is way too high," thought Catherine, as she stared down at her boss, her mentor, and her best friend.  "Oh, Griss," she inwardly sighed.  The paramedics lifted him deftly onto the gurney and began sprinting to the door, towards their mobile ICU outside.  

Sara and Nick were outside on a break, Sara sneaking a smoke.  They were joking with each other as they rounded the corner from the parking lot, when they both saw the MICU parked across the entrance.  They broke into a dead run, desperate to see which of their comrades was down.  They got to the ambulance just as they were loading Grissom's gurney into its bowels.

"Oh, God!  No!" shrieked Sara, attempting to scramble up into the ambulance.  Nick and a paramedic each grabbed an arm and pulled her back.  

"What happened?  Where are you taking him?" Sara screamed.  

"We're taking him to Desert Palms.  You've got to get back and let us do our job."  

As the MICU leapt forward and drove off, Sara collapsed into Nick's arms.  "Oh, God, Nicky," she wailed mournfully, her fists weakly crashing into his chest.

Nicky pulled her in closer, and kissed the top of her head.  "He's going to be OK," he said, not sure if he was lying.

"Take me to the hospital, Nicky," Sara begged.

Catherine and Warrick stood by helplessly, cold fear freezing both of them in place as they watched Grissom being taken away.  They saw Sara crying and pounding on Nick's chest, and knew that events like these often has more than one victim.

Nick snapped his face up at Warrick and Catherine with untold pain in his black eyes, silently beseeching them for help.  He was as shocked as the others, and didn't know what to say that could bring Sara any comfort, any peace.

Catherine looked at the three of them, two plainly in shock and the other on the verge of collapse.  She knew she had to pull it together for awhile, to be strong for the rest of them.  It's what Grissom would have wanted from her, what he would have expected – no, demanded.

She took hold of Sara's shoulder, turning her away from Nick.  "Sara, honey?  Can you hear me?  Listen, Sara.  Listen to me!"  Sara's head slowly came up, with her empty eyes meeting Catherine's, sobs racking her body. 

"Nicky and Warrick are going to get the Tahoe and take us to the hospital right now, so calm down."  She shot a glance at the two men, jerking her head towards the parking lot.

"Um, yeah, right," Nick mumbled and he and Warrick turned and ran full speed toward the lot behind the building.  In moments, the Tahoe squealed to a stop in front of the two women.  Nicky jumped out of the passenger side and opened the back door.  Catherine climbed in first, scooting over to the far side.  Nick had to practically lift Sara into the truck, as she seemed to have no will of her own, no energy, no awareness of where she was and what she needed to do.  

Nick pulled the seatbelt down and across Sara, and Catherine grabbed it and clicked it into place.  As Nick jumped back into his seat, Warrick floored the Tahoe, turning on the flashing red and blue emergency vehicle lights.

Seeing that Sara was in shock, knowing there was nothing she could do about it, Catherine pulled out her cell phone, dialing Mobley's number.  "Sheriff?  This is Catherine Willows.  Grissom has collapsed.  We are all on the way to the hospital now.  Huh?  Geez, Brian!  I don't know and I don't care at this moment!  That is so your problem, not mine," she hissed and she hit the End button on the phone.  "What an ass!  He had the nerve to ask who was 'minding the store'."

"Well, it _is_ his job, Catherine," Warrick cautiously answered.  "He can't afford to shut down CSI just because Grissom is … Grissom is …"  His voice weakened and trailed off.

"Well, he's going to have to find someone else to fill in for awhile.  It's not like we haven't pulled our share of doubles.  He can get that ass, Ecklie, to drag his crew in for a double shift for once," Catherine snorted.  "It's not like anyone's been overworked lately."

Each of them fell into silence for the remainder of the drive to the hospital, each trying to find a place in their minds where this made any sense.  

Sara sat, looking straight ahead, and yet seeing nothing.  Nothing with her eyes, anyway.  Her mind was in a whirl, black, with fog swirling, showing brief glimpses of Grissom  long ago, then swallowing him up again.  She would see him standing next to her, leaning over some evidence from some forgotten case.  They would be touching, both pretending that they didn't realize it.  Her thigh would be kissing up to his, her elbow resting comfortably against his on the table.  

They would be discussing the case with their faces but inches apart, close enough to feel each other's breath as they spoke.  Eventually, they would turn to look at one another, but would have to hurriedly break off their gaze, for fear that the pretense would be shattered.  

She smiled inwardly, just as the haze took this vision of Grissom, replacing it with the stark picture of him lying on the gurney in the ambulance, pale as death.  Her smile broke, and the horror returned.  

"We were just discussing the case … nothing major.  It's not like he seemed upset about it," Catherine was recounting to Nick. "He said he had a headache.  I offered to take him home, but when  he stood up, I noticed a strange expression come over his face.  I don't know how to describe it.  He went pale and looked up at me in total panic before he collapsed.  I yelled for Warrick to call 911.  I just wanted him to wake up and tell me it's OK, that he was just tired or hadn't eaten.  Whatever."  Catherine's voice cracked and caught in her throat.

Nick looked in the mirror and saw that Sara appeared to be trying to mentally rejoin them, at least somewhat.  "Sara, sugar, are you with us?"

Sara slowly turned towards the voice.  It sounded like it was coming from a million miles away.  Through the fog she could barely make out something … Nick's eyes.  She looked into the mirror, trying to wade through the clouds of confusion, seeking that soothing voice.  She felt lost in her own mind.  She tried to follow that voice … those eyes, but then they were gone.  Just like Grissom.

Chapter 13:  Who Then? 

"Only one of you, and only for a minute," the doctor warned.  Catherine looked at Warrick and Nick, asking, "You guys mind if I go in first?"  Both shook their heads.  They weren't even sure they wanted to see Grissom like this.  They wanted to be there for him, if he needed them.  They wanted him to get better.  But they weren't sure they could handle seeing him right now.  

"Naw, we'll just stay here with Sara," Nick offered.  Catherine looked over at Sara, slumped in her chair, apparently oblivious to them all.  

She walked over to her and squatted down in front of Sara, seeking her eyes.  "Sara?  I'm going in to see Griss now.  I'll tell him you are here.  After I check on him, I'll come right out and tell you how he's doing.  OK?"  Surprising all of them, Sara looked up at Catherine and nodded -- "uh-huh," was all she could say.  But it was more than she had said in hours, so Cath, Nicky and Warrick looked at each other, encouraged.

Catherine walked up to Grissom's room, stopping just short of it, with her hand on the door.  She hung her head down, shutting her eyes, trying to gather all the strength and composure that she could.  After a moment, she snapped her head up and put on a smile, pushing the door open.  

She had to work to keep the smile on her face when she saw him, with IVs and monitor wires apparently sprouting all over him like weeds in a garden.  He was pale, and looked so tired, so … old.  He turned his head slightly to look at her, then turned away abruptly.

"Hi, Gil, how are you feeling?"  She knew it was a stupid question, but she didn't really know what else to say.  Catherine was not accustomed to being speechless.

He slowly rocked his head back and forth on the pillow, in a weak "no" gesture, and barely lifted his good hand off the bed, waving her off.

"Gil …" Catherine knew he didn't want her there, didn't want anyone to see him in this condition.  "Gil, I just wanted you to know we are all here, and we all care about you.  You know that, don't you?"  A tear formed in the corner of his eye and hung suspended on the lid.  Catherine pretended not to notice.

"Gil, Sara's here.  Can she come in, just for a second?  Let her see that you are alive, at least?"  

Grissom shook his head "no" as vigorously as was possible under the circumstances.  Then he looked directly at Catherine, his eyes pleading with her.

 "You can't imagine how devastated she is right now.  Just let her look in on you.  Give her a smile.  Then I'll promise I'll shoo her out.  Please?"

'No,' he rocked again.  He silently pleaded with all he considered holy for her to go.  He didn't want to see Catherine.  He didn't want to see Nick or Warrick.  And he especially didn't want to see Sara.  More precisely, he didn't want them to see him.  Especially not 'her'.  He despised feeling weak, sick and tired.  He didn't want their pity and he didn't want to be a burden.  He wanted to be a ghost that no one would miss.

Giving up, she asked, "Well, is there anyone you _do_ want to see?"

Gil brought his good hand to his face, placing his thumb on his chin, with his fingers up, barely moving.  Catherine had known him long enough to know that this was the ASL sign for 'Mother.'

"I've already contacted your aunt.  She's bringing your mother on the next flight.  Since I'm the only one who's met your mom, I will pick them up at the airport at ten o'clock and bring them here."  The nurse came in, telling Catherine that it was time to leave.  She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead, smiling her farewells.

* * * * * 

"OK, guys, I'm going to McCarren to pick up Grissom's mother and aunt.  You guys need to get some rest, too.  We can't be any good to Grissom if we are exhausted.  Warrick, would you stay until I get back?  Call me on my cell if anything changes.  Nicky, I'll drop you and Sara off at the lab.  Drive her home and see if you can get her to sleep."

"I understand," Nicky nodded.  They tried to get Sara to come with them, but she snapped to life, spitting out vehemently, "**_I … am … not … leaving … him_**."

Nick tried to reason with her, telling her that Griss was asleep now and that he wanted her to get some sleep, too.  She glared at him, pulling her arm away, "I will not leave until I can see him.  Period."  Her eyes flashed stubborn defiance, with a vehemence that caught Nick off guard.

"Fine, you can stay here with Warrick," Catherine capitulated.  "Nicky, please go get some rest.  We'll take Grissom … and Sara … in shifts, OK?"  

  Chapter 14:  Tough Love 

Catherine shepherded Grissom's mother and aunt to Gil's room, but the nurse said that they would have to wait a few moments, until the doctor was finished.  Catherine took the opportunity to introduce Grissom's mother and aunt to Warrick and Sara, who seemed to be slowly returning to reality.  When it became obvious that Mrs. Grissom was deaf, with her sister interpreting for her, so many things fell into place for both Warrick and Sara.  They looked at each other, dumbfounded.  They quickly recovered and shook her hand, Warrick telling her how much her son meant to them, as both a mentor and a friend.  

She seemed genuinely proud, despite the heartbreaking circumstances.  She moved her eyes from Warrick and looked contemplatively at Sara.  She cocked her head a little to the side and squinted a little, looking so much like her son when he's trying to figure out something or someone.  "You must be Sara," she signed.  "Gil's spoken of you often.  I would recognize you anywhere."  

 "Mrs. Grissom, I, uh, would you just tell him that, uh, I just want him to know that, uh …"

The elder Grissom reached across and squeezed Sara's hand, smiling.  She nodded and turned to enter her only child's hospital room alone. 

"Hello, Gil," she signed.  "I've missed you."

"Hello, Mother," he signed with his one good hand.  He wasn't sure how he was going to communicate with her, with only one good hand and not being able to clearly speak.  How could she read his lips with one side of his mouth not obeying the simplest commands?

"How are you, son?"

He attempted a feeble smile, but his eyes gave him away.  His mother could see the fear in them, and it tore at her heart.  "It's going to work out, darling.  You'll see.  You're a strong man, and you have so many people here who love you and will help you.  There are several of your friends in the waiting room right now."

His mother moved over to the chair beside his bed and grasped his hand, bringing it to her lips in a kiss.  Returning it to rest, she began signing to him again:  "I knew Catherine already, of course, but I got to meet some of the other people you work with.  Such good friends, they care so much for you.  I finally got to meet Sara.  She sends her love," Mrs. Grissom interpreted from Sara's convoluted request.  At her name, Gil's eyes began to fill with tears, and he turned quickly from his mother's gaze.  

With her frail hand, Mrs. Grissom reached out to turn his face back towards her, to make him pay attention to her.  "I know that this is hard and it will take time to recover, Gil, but why are you crying?"  She grabbed a tissue and dabbed lightly under his eyes.

"I'm so ... damaged," he fingerspelled, since the sign took two hands.

"But you can get better.  It will just take time."

"Too late."   _... 'By the time you figure it out, it really could be too late'_ replayed itself in his mind.

"Too late for what?" she asked, uncomprehending.

He didn't answer, but seemed to fade into the bed.  After a moment, he signed, "Home."

"You can't go home, yet."

"Home.  LA," he signed.

"You want to come home to Los Angeles?" she asked, surprise written on her face.

"Yes," his right hand nodded for him.

"We'll talk about this later, when it's time for you to leave the hospital."

"Leave now.  Home."

"No, Gil.  I am not taking you home now.  You will just have to wait until you are better," she signed forcefully with a frown, instantly shifting back into the maternal mode she hadn't had to fill in over thirty years.  He relented, more from exhaustion than from agreement.  

Softening, she signed, "It's time for you to rest now.  I'll come back later."  She smoothed back the curls from his forehead and smiled.

He nodded weakly and closed his eyes, almost instantly drifting off to sleep.  His mother studied him, looking more at peace in his dreams.  No matter how old he gets, he is still my little boy, she thought.  

Chapter 15:  Torment 

The anti-coagulant the doctors had given Grissom only moments after they assessed him in the ER may have saved his life.  It certainly diminished the effects of the stroke.  His physical therapy began within days of his admittance, and he had regained much of the use of his arm and leg.  The droop down the side of his face was much less pronounced and he could speak, though not always very clearly, especially whenever he was tired or agitated.  They had told him that it would progress fairly quickly from here, provided he took care of himself and continued with his therapy.

Catherine peeked through the door to the physical therapy room, watching Grissom walk between what looked like the short parallel bars at her daughter's gymnastics class.  He was getting stronger and more coordinated, though she could tell he was frustrated at having to go so slowly.  She went back to the waiting room until he was wheeled back, now to a private room instead of ICU.

"Hey, Griss," she called to him brightly.  "You're certainly looking better!"

"Better than what?" he asked dryly.

"Well, better than you did when you got here, and certainly better than most of the people I see in our line of work," she quipped.

"That's comforting."

"Grissom, now that you're a little better, I've got to talk to you about something.  I don't want to, but I don't have a choice."

"Should I call the doctor?  I remember what happened the last time you wanted to talk to me."

"If you are blaming your stroke on me, I will smother you where you lay, mister!" she laughed at him, moving towards him menacingly.

"All right.  I take it back!"

"Grissom ..."  Catherine took a gulp of air.  She was never shy about saying what she thought, but she didn't want to get Grissom's blood pressure up either, so she tried to think of a way to phrase it as nonconfrontationally as possible.  "Do us all a favor and just let Sara come in and say 'hi'.  She has literally not left the waiting room once since you got here, except to go pee.  She won't eat, unless we bring food to her, and then she just picks at it.  She barely sleeps, and that's sitting in a plastic chair.  She refuses to leave until she knows you are all right.  Nick tried to physically carry her out, and she caused such a scene that he put her down just to shut her up.  She's starting to smell bad." 

"No."    ('Why does Catherine insist on torturing me with this?')

"Just for a second?  Just so she can see it's all right to leave ... that you're going to be fine.  She won't believe us."

"No."    ('I don't want her to see me this way ... weak, doddering like an old man.')

"What could it hurt?"  She put on her 'sad' face.

"No."   ('I couldn't stand to see the pity in her eyes.')  

Becoming more frustrated, Catherine snapped, "I'm not asking for a soliliquy, just a smile and a wave.  I will personally make her leave after ten seconds, if you want.  Grissom, if she keeps this up, she's going to be in the hospital herself.  You're getting better, and she's getting worse."

He didn't immediately say 'no', but he didn't say 'yes', either.  'Time to go for broke,' Catherine decided.

"You don't have to pledge your undying love, Grissom.  Just say 'hi', for God's sake.  Is that too much to give her after all these years?" she asked in frustration.

His gaze bore into her eyes, marveling at how they could hold so much fire and yet be so cold at the same time.  As usual, he wouldn't actually verbalize the words that were hoped for, but he nodded and sighed.  There was really no use in arguing with Catherine when she had her mind made up.

"I'll be right back," she said excitedly, rushing for the door.  As she opened it, she quickly turned back, "Thank you, Gil."

Moving quickly to Sara's homestead in the waiting room, Catherine knelt down in front of her and took up her hands excitedly.  "Sara, guess what?  Grissom is feeling better and wants to see you."

"Really?" she asked, perking up.  "He's better?"

"Yes.  Now, let's go into the ladies room and get you freshened up a bit.  OK?"

"Sure, Cath.  All right," she agreed, standing up for the first time in several hours, unsteadily moving to the only other room she's seen for days.

Catherine took out her makeup bag and brush.  "Here.  You brush your hair while I put a little color back in your cheeks."

Seeing herself in the mirror, Sara was aghast.  "Catherine, I look like shit."

"We'll fix that."

"I can't let him see me like this!"

"Well, it's not like he doesn't look worse.  Pale, gaunt, tired.  I'd say you guys were a matched set.  As usual," she teased Sara.

Catherine applied a little more makeup than Sara normally wore, but it was necessary to divert attention from her pallor and the dark circles under her eyes.

Though she had been waiting for days to be able to see Grissom, to assure herself that they were not lying to her, she found her legs leaden on the walk down the hall to his room.  Sensing her apprehension, Catherine put an arm around her shoulders.  Before opening the door, Catherine reminded her that Grissom had been very ill, but was better now.  But he still didn't look, talk or act entirely like himself, so Sara should not be upset when she sees him.  

Sara nodded that she understood, and Catherine urged her to take some slow, deep breaths to calm down.  Smiling herself, she told Sara to put on her happy face, and she opened the door.

Grissom was lying on his back, with his eyes closed, and Sara feared that she was waking him.  She slid through the door silently and stood just inside, watching his breath move his chest up and down, reassuring her that he was indeed alive.

"Hi, Sara," he said.  He didn't have to see her or hear her to know it was her.  He slowly turned towards her, opening his eyes, praying he would not see what he feared in her stare.

"Hi, Grissom," she answered nervously.  "Are you feeling any better?"  

"Yes, thank you.  Much better."

"I'm really glad to hear that," she said, self-consciously pushing back her unruly hair and smoothing her wrinkled clothes, suddenly feeling wholly unattractive.

Grissom could see that Catherine had not overstated Sara's state.  If he had to lower his guard and show her some glimpse of how he felt about her to get her to take care of herself, then he would.  He could always shut it down later, like he always did, he assured himself.   ... At least he hoped he could.

"You can come sit down over here," he offered, pointing to the chair by his bed.

"No, thanks.  I've been sitting," she answered, looking around the room nervously.

"Well, you don't have to stand way over there.  I'm not contagious, you know," he said with a grin.

She smiled weakly and made her way unsteadily towards him, suddenly reaching out a hand for the back of the chair when she almost stumbled.

"Sara, honey, are you all right?" he asked, with genuine concern, pushing himself up in bed.

Again, like months ago, only her subconscious registered the unintentional term of endearment.  As then, she was too dazed to notice it now.  It would come back to her in her dreams, and she would wonder if it ever really happened.

"Sure, Grissom.  Guess I'm a little tired."

"Been working too hard?" he asked, knowing the real reason.  "How is your case going?  The one with the cattle?"

"I ... uh ... I don't know.  I haven't been in for a little while," she fidgeted, wanting to be honest, but fearing that she would anger him.  He was, after all, still her supervisor.

"Why not?" he asked gently.

"I was worried about you."

"Didn't Catherine tell you I was OK?"

"Yes, but she wouldn't let me see you, so I didn't know whether to believe her.  I couldn't understand why she could see you, but I couldn't."  Her face was blank, still showing the fight back against the shock she'd been coping with for days, but her voice hinted at the pain of betrayal.

"She wouldn't lie about something like that, Sara.  And, to be honest, I didn't want you to see me like that.  I knew it wouldn't bother Catherine as much."

She shrugged, unsure how to take the explanation, but accepting it at face value.  She was too tired, too stressed, too guilty to try to decipher his nuances.

"Would you do something for me, please?" he asked.

"Of course.  Anything," she answered immediately, turning her full attention to his face.

"Anything?" he asked, locking her eyes with his own, daring her to commit to an unknown.

"Yes.  Anything," she answered more forcefully, willing to go to Hell and back if only he would ask.

"Promise?" he challenged her again, setting the hook deeper.

"I promise," she said with all the solemnity that phrase meant to her.

"Please go home.  Get some rest.  Eat and then rest some more.  When you feel better in a day or two, you can go back to work.  Help Catherine keep everything going until I come back.  That is how you can help me the most."  He didn't release her eyes, not willing to let her wiggle out of her promise.

She was stuck and she knew it.  She did not want to just go on with her daily life, as though he hadn't just had a stroke.  It seemed so ... wrong.  But she had told him 'anything'.    

"Can I still come visit you?" she asked, trying to negotiate a better settlement, knowing she had no leverage.

"Yes, of course, but you have to take care of yourself.  I can't concentrate on getting better if I'm worried about you," he admitted to her.  

"OK, Grissom.  I'll go home.  I'll see you tomorrow," she agreed, smiling a little more strongly now, showing a hint of her teeth.  She couldn't seem to make her feet move, and found herself unable to break the connection between their eyes.  She lifted up a hand in a small goodbye wave and shifted her feet to try to free them from their bonds.  

Grissom could empathize with her difficulty leaving.  Though he had dreaded seeing her, he didn't want her to go now, which was what he had feared would happen.  He stretched out his hand to her, and she dropped her waving hand into his.  He wrapped his fingers around hers and lightly squeezed.  "I'll see you tomorrow.  Now go rest," he whispered to her.  He released her hand slowly, and closed his eyes.  It would be the only way he could let her go.

Sara opened the door and looked back for a moment.  Catherine gathered her up from the hallway, telling her, "See.  I told you he was going to be OK.  Now will you believe me?"

Sara nodded and thanked Catherine for helping her through the past few days. 

"What are friends for?  Now, let's get you home before you collapse," she said, taking Sara's arm and leading her out of her self-imposed prison.

Chapter 16:  Gut-Check 

"I see that Sara isn't in the waiting room anymore.  Did she finally collapse and get admitted?  Or does it mean you finally relented?" Grissom's mother asked him, her alabaster face unreadable.

"I saw her earlier today.  I made her promise to go home and take care of herself," Grissom signed, somewhat satisfied with himself.

"Decent of you," she replied, no longer smiling.

Grissom felt his ego deflating, burst by the intensity of his mother's glare.

"What is wrong, Mother?"

"It is gut-check time, as they say, Gil."

"What do you mean?"

"You told me a few months ago about an accident in your lab where Sara was injured."

"Yes, her hand was badly cut and she got some minor cuts on her face."

"You can still see the scars, faintly."

"Yes."

"There are scars you can't see."

"We all have scars you can't see."

"Yes, but not everyone has to come to grips with their own mortality at her age.  Most people are older when it hits them that they really are going to die someday, and perhaps sooner than they expected."

"It was a hard but good lesson for her, Mother.  Not that she learned much, evidently.  She can be reckless."

"We can't have that, now can we?" she answered, but her facial features added the tone of irony missing in her hands.

He cocked his head sideways and looked at her through a furrowed brow.  Briefly licking his lips, he asked, "Where are you going with this, Mother?"

"Maybe the teacher should become the student.  A few days ago, you looked the possibility of imminent death in the eye.  Are you content with life as it was before, or are you willing to be," she paused, then slowly signed, "reckless?"

"It is not in my nature.  You know that."

"We are not just our natures, Gil.  God has seen fit, for whatever reason, to give us something the animals don't have – the ability to rise above our baser instincts."

"That's exactly what I'm trying to do," he laughed.

"I could be wrong, and I hope you'll forgive me if I am, but I believe your feelings for Sara go well beyond baser instincts.  Almost anyone can satisfy those.  Can anyone make you feel like Sara does?"

"No.  But not all of those feelings are good feelings, Mother.  She scares me.  She worries me.  And she makes me angry."

"That's how you know it is love and not infatuation.  Infatuation knows nothing but bliss.  Love comes with its measure of pain and fear."

"A large measure, it would seem."

"What are you afraid of, son?"

"Mother, I'm tired.  And I don't really want to talk about this anymore, OK?"

"That's fine for now, Gil.  But sooner or later you will have to.  Giving in to fear only feeds it.  You will have to confront it or it will destroy you.  And you will take her down with you."

He could not understand why no one could see that this was exactly what he'd been trying to prevent.  When he could see that their 'infatuation' with each other was deepening into love, on both sides, he knew he had to put an end to it.  It seemed harmless and pleasant when it was a delicious flirtation, and the only tension between them was sexual and unresolved.  But love brought dangers that he couldn't control.  He could not stand the thought of what loving him might do to her.    
  


He had hoped that the one person who's known him his whole existence would intuitively know his motives were not as selfish or inexplicable as everyone assumed.  She was the one person he normally felt he could talk to honestly, holding back nothing.  But she was also the one person he didn't usually have to verbalize all of his feelings to.  If he couldn't make his mother comprehend, how would he ever get Sara to?

Chapter 17:  Be Careful What You Ask For 

"I cannot freaking believe this!" Warrick complained to the group seated around the table.  The chair where Grissom would normally have sat remained conspicuously empty, like a missing-man formation flying overhead at a military funeral.

"Yeah, I guess you do have to be careful what you ask for," Catherine agreed.  "We just asked for more cases.  We should have been more specific."

"Hey, we solved the convenience store robbery and assault case that Grissom and I were working on," Greg harped defensively.

"Beginner's luck," Nick shot back.

"Goes along with this whole crappy week," Sara added, ignoring Greg's rebuttal.  "Figures that when we finally get a couple of decent cases, they'd be deadends."  She looked down at her hands and shook her head.  If she just had a juicy case to keep her mind occupied, she might be able to quit thinking about Grissom, shivering when she thought about what happened, shuddering to think what could have happened, and worrying about what will yet happen.  'Did I cause it?  We argued.  I was being a bitch.'

"How are you doing, Sara?" Nick asked cautiously.  "I thought maybe you'd take a day to rest."

"I've already been away for a few days, Nick.  I slept some this afternoon.  I'm fine."

"What, four hours of sleep in the last several days?" Nick asked.  Warrick and Catherine looked at each other and held their tongues, not wanting to step on any of the landmines Nicky was determined to plow through.  If she was going to blow up, they didn't want any of the shrapnel to hit them.

"Funny, you don't _look_ like my mother," she replied, trying not to sound as touchy as she felt.  Her first inclination was to tear him a new asshole for even suggesting that he or anyone else knew what was right and best for her.  But, she knew that he was right.  She should not have come back tonight.  Every nerve in her body was crackling, and she could swear that even the air hurt her skin.  

She had tried staying home and resting, keeping her promise to Grissom, but being alone was a demon-filled experience that she could not face for more than a few hours before she had to find someplace with people who could empathize.  She wondered if Grissom would enjoy the irony of work being her diversion.

Everyone held their breaths for a few seconds, waiting for Sara to go ballistic on Nick.  It would be a welcomed sign that she was feeling better.  Exhaling, all three were torn between feeling disappointed that she didn't take the bait, and elated that they wouldn't have to spend the next few hours cleaning blood off the walls of the breakroom.

Catherine adjourned the meeting, letting the guys go back to watching a rerun of last night's basketball game on ESPN.  She caught Sara's attention and silently jerked her head slightly towards the open doorway and the hall.  Nodding, Sara got up and walked out, followed closely by Catherine.

"Hey, there's nothing going on.  Why don't you go take a nap on the couch in Grissom's office?  That way, you'll be rested when you go see him after shift.  You are going, right?"

"Yeah, I'm going as soon as I get off.  But, I'm fine.  Besides, I don't know if I can stand going into his office, Cath."

"Think of it as being close to him.  Close your eyes and pretend he's working quietly at his desk while you rest."  She gave Sara's shoulder a squeeze, and at that particular moment, Sara couldn't remember why she had never really liked Catherine.

* * * * *

They were both right.  When she first entered the office, Sara felt the oppression of his absence, a vacuum sucking all the air out of the room.  She began to walk around his office guiltily, feeling like she was trespassing, but drawn to all of his mementos and treasures.  They all told some story about him, if one was willing to listen.  She had always just thought of them as his clutter before, but now she looked at each item as a piece of the jigsaw puzzle that was Grissom.  

She began to draw comfort from looking at and touching each jar, cage, and frame.  A warm smile settled on her face and she began to feel like he was there with her, only deconstructed into a hundred pieces.  She laid down on the couch, closed her eyes and reconstructed him, holding the image in her mind's eye until she fell into a peaceful sleep.  In place of the afternoon's nightmares, sweet dreams began to flitter into her mind.  

_'Honey, that doesn't look good.'  _

_'Sara, honey, are you all right?.'  _

Chapter 18:  May I Have This Dance? 

When he awoke, he was surprised to find himself anxious for her to visit.  'This is not right,' he told himself.  'This is for her, not for me.  I can't afford to let this get out of hand.'

The doctors had made their rounds and seemed pleased with his progress, and an aide brought in his breakfast, which was too bland to be appetizing, but had the virtue of being filling.

They had just cleared away his tray when she arrived, looking much less the cadaver than she did the day before.  She had obviously kept her promise to him as best as she could, and it brought a wave of remorse to him, knowing that as soon as everything was back to normal, he would have to shut her out again, for both of their sakes.

"Hi, Grissom," she smiled from the door.  'Oh, my God.  There it is, her Sara smile.'  He had not seen it directed to him in many months.  He pushed down his elation by reminding himself that it was no longer exclusively his;  she had been flashing it around to virtually every male in the lab _except_ him for months now it seemed.

"Hi, Sara," he answered back.  "You're looking much better today."

"Thanks.  You, too."  She shifted uncomfortably, not sure what she was expected or allowed to do.  The rules had obviously changed since his stroke, just like they changed every few months for the past few years.  She was never really certain where she stood.

"Come sit by me," he said gently, trying to put her at ease.

She made her way to the chair, not looking at him, considering whether she should speak the questions that had been plaguing her ever since she woke up from her nap in his office.

"What's wrong, Sara?" Grissom asked quietly, taking her hand into his.

"Why are you being so nice to me now?" she blurted out.

"Why wouldn't I be?  You're being nice to me, aren't you?" he countered, becoming anxious that he couldn't foresee any constructive outcome for this conversation.

"You haven't been nice to me in a long time, Grissom. ... Except the day the lab blew up," she added as an afterthought.   "And then, only for a few minutes.  But I could be imagining that.  Everything is kind of hazy."

"I'm sorry, Sara," he said, hoping it would end the conversation before it got on dangerous ground.  Seeing that his apology had little effect, he sighed deeply and said, "Sara,  I'm not really sure what I'm supposed to say here."

Looking up at him, she urged, "You could try telling me the truth."

"I'm not sure what the truth is," Grissom demurred.

"Then tell me what you think," she countered.

"I don't know what I think.  I have a lot of conflicting thoughts and I don't know which ones are true," he admitted to her.

"Then tell me what you feel," Sara pushed.

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't _know_ what I feel.  I have a lot of conflicting feelings, too, and I don't know which are real."

"Is that the truth, Grissom?  Do you really not know what you think or what you feel?  Or do you just not want to tell me?" she eyed him suspiciously.

"I can't answer that, Sara," he evaded.

"You can't?  Or you won't?" she pressed.

Closing his eyes to think and to escape her probing gaze, he answered, "Both."

"You know, Grissom, after the lab accident, I really began to realize how precious and fleeting life is.  I decided not to waste any more time on fear.  That's why I asked you to dinner.  I needed to know if I was wasting my time.  Am I?" she asked openly, her face and her eyes begging him to tell her the truth for once, if never before or never again.

"I don't know," he answered quietly and honestly, opening his eyes to search hers, then he drew his top lip down between his teeth, biting on it, nervously waiting for her reaction.  

"I would wait forever if I knew the answer would eventually be 'no, you're not wasting my time'.  But I've put my life on hold for too long already, if the answer is 'yes'."  

"Sara, I can't tell you what I don't know," he responded in a voice filled with all the pain, doubts and confusion he had been tortured with for years.

"That should be answer enough, I guess," she said dejectedly, and slowly pushed herself up from the chair to leave.  "Hope you feel better soon, Grissom.  Good-bye."

There was a decided finality to the tone of 'good-bye' that hit Grissom like an avalanche, pressing on his chest, constricting his breath, until he felt he might pass out.

Gulping in a breath, Grissom said, "You're not coming back, are you?"

"No.  I'm not.  You don't need me here.  But you'll be going home soon and will be back to normal in no time," she added confidently, meaning every nuance he could derive from her statement.

"Will you be there when I get back?" he asked weakly, feeling his body begin to physically react to the pain his mind was going through.

"I doubt it.  But I have to find another job first, so I guess it depends on how quickly you get back," she answered as evenly as she could.  She was past trying to sugar-coat her words for him, but didn't want to expose her disappointment either.

"What do you want me to say?" he implored.  "Please, tell me!"

"You could say, 'good luck'," she answered, deciding not to explore the crack in his wall.

"I don't believe in luck," Grissom scoffed.

"Then say, 'best wishes'."

"I do wish all the best for you.  That's all I've ever wanted for you.  That's why I can't say the things you want me to say, or do the things you want me to do," he stammered out, desperate for her to do the math on her own, saving him from having to face and name his fears to her.  

"So you are hurting me to keep me from getting hurt, is that right?" she asked incredulously.

"Something like that.  A little now to prevent a lot later."

"What makes you so sure that I will get hurt a lot later?  Are you hiding some hideous secret?  Are you an ax-murderer?  Are you carrying some deadly communicable disease?  Are you abusive?  A drunk?  A drug addict?  What is so bad about you that it would not be possible for me to not get hurt?" she demanded vehemently, losing patience with his vague answers.

Why wasn't it as obvious to her as it was to him, he wondered.  Why did he have to spell it out?  Why can she read his mind about things he could just as easily say, then be unable to when he really needed it?

"You deserve so much more than I can give.  You are young and attractive.  I'm fifteen years older and am lying in bed recovering from a stroke.  Doesn't that tell you something?  It's too late for me, but it's not too late for you," he answered her, distress etched on his face.  Unable to control the flood of emotions released by his rare stab at truthfulness, he flung an arm across his eyes, blocking her probing gaze into his soul.

"It's never too late to care for someone, Grissom.  You are trying to think about this with your brain instead of with your heart.  What does your heart tell you?" she probed.

"My heart tells me that I could get hurt just as easily as you could.  Maybe more so," he breathed from under the protection of his arm.

"Hmmm.  I didn't think this was all about me.  You know, Grissom, you are right.  There is that chance.  And if you aren't willing to risk being with someone because there's a chance that you'll get hurt, then it _is_ too late for you.  Have you never heard that it's better to have loved and lost, than to never have loved at all?"  

"We could lose more than each other.  We could lose our jobs.  Tragic enough to lose one.  I couldn't survive losing both."

"I'm losing both," she answered stonily.

"You're _leaving_ both.  Your choice," he shot back, more acidly than he intended.

"I'm leaving _one_," she conceded.  "The other left me long ago."

"You'll find job at another lab, and happiness with another person.  You can still have it all," he tried to reason with her.

"I could have had it all here ... maybe.  Or maybe not.  I just wanted to explore that possibility, Grissom.  All I wanted was for us to see if we could make it work.  It was just a date I was asking for, not a lifetime commitment.  If it worked out, great.  If not, we would be no worse off than we are now.  Less so, because we would know.  No regrets.  As it is, we'll always wonder.  Or at least I will."

"Look, this isn't getting us anywhere," he snapped, weary of prolonging the agony, fearing his resolve was crumbling.  "If you're going to go, go."

"All right, Grissom.  You're right, as usual.  I can't make you feel what you don't feel," she agreed.

Everything she had built her life around had been a fantasy, and it was now laying in shards at her feet.  In a strange way, she felt liberated.  There is a certain freedom in hopelessness, of being unfettered by dreams.  Nothing left, nothing left to lose.  

"Good-bye," she said, a smile of resignation painted on her lips.  If she loved him, she would give him what he wanted, regardless of the personal cost.  And she did love him.  

Impulsively, recklessly, she seized the opportunity to reduce her number of regrets by one, leaning over suddenly to kiss him good-bye.  It would be their first, last and only kiss, so she allowed all the feelings she ever had for him – love, hate, pain, disappointment, anger, desire – flow through her lips into his in a flash flood.  

He was stunned at first, and recoiled from the surprise, but he was trapped between his pillow and her, unable to escape, and she was unwilling to release him.  He thought he had experienced just about every kind of kiss in his years, stemming from every kind of emotion.  But he had never experienced a solitary kiss that conveyed them all, and with such intensity.

Against his better judgment, he joined in the kiss, allowing his own pent-up feelings to emerge, a matched set to her own, but with an undercurrent of stark fear added.  What he could not tell her, she could feel.

More truth passed between them in those few seconds than had transpired in all the years they had known each other, combined.  The kiss allowed a level of honesty they had never been able to find with words.

Pulling back, she opened her eyes and hovered inches from his face, willing him to look at her.  He was afraid to open his eyes, afraid she would see what she already felt, but he was compelled to by a need he had to satisfy.  If he never saw them again, he wanted his last look at her eyes to be this one.  He tried desperately to memorize them so that he could take the memory out and hold it to himself after she was gone from his life.

Touching his cheek with her hand, then laying her thumb softly on his lips, she let a smile grace her eyes first, then spread down her cheeks to her lips.  "See you tomorrow?" she asked, her energy for their dance renewed.

"I'd like that," he answered, bowing to his partner.


End file.
